The Danger Games
by modestlobster
Summary: Every year, 48 mutants (one from each state* in the USA) are forced to fight in a televised death match called 'The Danger Games'. This year's tributes are: Jubilation Lee (CA), Robert Drake (OR), Warren Worthington (WA), Julian Keller (ID), Neena Thurman (NV), and... CH9: AZ, NM, CO, UT, WY, MT reapings. (CH10 coming soon: More victors, more tributes!) [Bobby POV; THG inspired AU]
1. Chapter 1

It was then - when the armed guards shoved me into that dark armored-train compartment - that I knew my life was over.

"Hey _concierge_, I asked for a room_ with a view!_" I called out futilely, as the locks clanked shut.

The only response, however, was that of a subdued female voice, from somewhere in the darkness:

"…You're Robert, right…? They said your name was Robert Drake."

"The one and only." I sighed, stumbling into what I determined to be a plastic bed frame, as I blindly felt my way around the room.

"Though my friends call me 'Bobby'…" I added blankly, as I sat down on the thin mattress and itched at the edges of the inhibitor collar around my neck. I reached out with my other hand, toward where her voice had come from, but all it found was a solid wall.

"Bobby." She repeated quietly, her voice somehow drifting through the barrier.

I nodded, though I knew she couldn't see me. "And that must make you, uh… Miss California?"

"…Jubilation…"

"Uh, well yeah, it's a real pleasure meeting you," I shrugged, "But I've definitely had better days than this."

"No, you dweeb. My _name_ is Jubilation_… _Jubilation Lee."

"Oh."

And it was then - when lights suddenly burst in front of my eyes - that I knew my life was over.


	2. Chapter 2

It took me a few moments to register that the lights flashing before my eyes _weren't_ a sign of my imminent demise, but were instead a sign of solidarity faintly emanating from the fingertips of the young Chinese-American woman standing on the other side of the thick bullet-proof glass from me.

"It h-hurts... like h-hell..." Jubilation Lee gritted her teeth through the pain inflicted by the inhibitor collar, "But... if you... try h-hard enough... They s-still work..."

She continued straining - the light casting back on her features with an eerie glow - and watched me expectantly.

I realized what she was waiting for.

I held my fingers up to the glass so she could see them, and I focused my thoughts on the power - the 'gift', the curse - running through my veins. My _mutation_, which normally manifested itself reflexively; I'd never really had to _think_ about it before.

A sharp stabbing pain suddenly shot into the base of my neck and down my spine.

"It's o-k-kay..." She whispered hoarsely, as I winced and jerked against the sensation. "You c-can do it... B-Bobby..."

My brain hollered at me to stop, stop, _please just stop_. I ignored it as best I could, fighting back, willing my body to do what it knew it could do.

And that's when a few rogue ice crystals prickled out from my fingertips.

But I couldn't take it any longer. I had to stop.

The water-formerly-known-as-ice trailed down my hand, complemented by a few stray and salty drops that leaked out from the corners of my eyes.

Jubilee lowered her hand then, but I saw a faint smile on her lips before the darkness again swallowed everything up.

"So... You're an elemental..." She said, contemplating. "That's... pretty cool."

I huffed out a laugh. "Not a very good one though, by that sorry little display."

"Are you kidding me?" She huffed back. "You've seen what I can do, and I've had way more practice than you... I mean, I've been in solitary confinement for, like, 10 hours..."

Of course. She was the mutant tribute from California. Their reaping in downtown Los Angeles had kicked everything off at 6:30 on Saturday night, and then it was almost a half-day trip by train to Portland, for Oregon's reaping.

My reaping. Where _my _reaping took place.

"You'll be hanging icicles before we even get to Seattle." She lamented aloud, and I could hear her weight drop down onto her own thin bed mattress.

As if on cue, the train lurched into motion. And that was it.

_Goodbye, life. I won't be coming back._

I stretched out on my bed and sighed.

"You can cry if you want to... I won't tell anybody." Jubilation said after a few moments of silence. "...Huh, I guess that's another advantage to being the first in your train car."

"What's that?"

"Nobody sees you being weak... I mean, unless you're already blubbering when Emma Frost reads your name out on stage. Then you're pretty much screwed."

I hadn't really thought of it like that. Here I was, just going along for the ride - albeit the worst ride of my life... But Ms. Jubilation Lee obviously had been thinking and practicing strategy since the cameras found her in the crowd. Maybe long before that.

"I wonder how I looked..." I started thinking now about all the stats from the past five years, about how the tributes that lasted the longest in the Games were always the ones who racked up the most sponsors - from the very beginning.

"Mm... Stunned, a bit sleepy..." Jubilation admitted, then explained, "There's a projector thingy in here. It showed the official feed of your reaping. I guess we're gonna see everyone's."

"Another advantage of being first..." I suggested dryly.

The official coverage of the reapings and the Games themselves was practically mandatory viewing - as it was covered by every media outlet anyway, it was almost impossible to escape - but I had always looked the other way during the reapings; muted the TV, or took a week off sick from the firm where I worked. It was always bad enough watching the Games themselves; I never had the stomach for the survivor's guilt from seeing and hearing all the back-stories and the buildup in the weeks leading into the main event. The less I knew about the mutants killing each other on-screen, the easier it was to detach, pretend it was just television.

But now it was my reality.

"Hey, I wouldn't worry..." Jubilation continued her train of thought. "You'll totally get some interest from your reaping footage..."

"...Really?" I tried to think back on what was all just a blur. I couldn't remember doing anything that would excite anyone to put cash on my life.

"Uh, _duh_. Beautiful wife yelling out your name, holding your adorbs little baby... They'll be replaying that every time your name gets mentioned." She sighed wistfully. "_Everyone_ will want to bring you home to your family in one piece."

_Opal._

"Aw man..." I groaned. "Except none of that's true. She's just my girlfriend... And... her son..."

"He looked just like you." Jubilation said quietly.

"I know, but..." I shrugged in the darkness. It was complicated.

"_Omigosh_... They're not X-Genes, are they."

"...No." Neither Opal nor her son were mutants. It was _definitely_ complicated.

I heard Jubilee sit up on her bed; I could feel her staring at me. "But she _knew_, right...? _Before_ you got reaped?"


	3. Chapter 3

After Emma Frost escorted me off the Portland reaping stage, I was shoved into a little room to say my good-byes. Not that there were many; neither my parents nor any of my relatives were there - they all still lived in New York; my colleagues hadn't known I was a mutant, and most wouldn't risk being caught associating with me now that they did know (despite Oregon being a pro-mutant state); my friends who were mutants couldn't risk the attention, which might 'out' themselves (again, despite the prevailing positive West Coast attitude toward mutants and mutant rights, it was still better for most X-genes to keep quiet about their DNA); and my non-X friends were likely some combination of those same excuses.

Surprisingly, my boss was the first person to come in. It was several years ago now that I had had to disclose my registration status as a mutant to Karl Kerschl as part of my employment process. But he never made a big deal of it then, or later; he had kept it confidential the whole time - to the point that sometimes I wondered if he had forgotten. If he had, I guess he got a big ol' reminder this morning. He wasn't a sentimental man, but he gave my shoulder a hardy squeeze, and told me the firm would help me as best they could. I believed him, knowing that it would be more _him_ than the firm; and then he was whisked out the door. Gone.

My landlady took his place. She _sure was sorry and all_, and _wished me the best of luck, to be sure_. But she _just wanted to let me know_ that she was _already arranging for my belongings to be put in storage _and that they_ could be collected by any representatives of my estate once everything was all over_. She thanked me for _always paying the rent on time and in full and, well, I suppose that's it. Bye now, dear_.

And then, finally, it was a scene from _The Assassination of Opal Tanaka by the Coward Robert Drake_. Opal stood just inside the room, her bottom lip pursed up in a stout pout, arms fiercely wrapped around her son, Robert. (_I told you it was complicated_.)

I held out my arms.

She cautiously made her way over to me, but stopped short of my proffered embrace. As I took the next step closer - she slapped me.

"Why you didn't _tell me_..." Opal shook her head, exasperated. "What am I _supposed to do_?"

"I... didn't think..." I faltered, my brain still caught up on the stinging sensation across my cheek.

"No, you didn't; and _you don't_." She looked me in the eye; hers were red and puffy. "But you better _start_, Bobby. If you want to have _any hope_ out there, you better start _thinking_. Or make fast friends with someone else who does."

She let out a short sob then. "I don't even _know_ what you can _do_!"

They had collared me as soon as Emma Frost had called out my name, so I couldn't just show her.

Instead, I put my arms around her and little Robert; I kissed Opal's cheek and whispered into her ear, "You know those ice sculptures along my street every winter, that no ones knows where they come from..."

But then a buzzer went off. Guards came in. _Time's up._

_"Bobby!"_ She reached out, I felt her fingers touch my cheek for a moment, and then I was gone.

"Omigosh, Bobby... You _dweeb_. You've _gotta_ tell girls stuff like that _from the start_." Jubilation Lee scoffed loudly into the darkness. "...But at least you had someone to say bye to, I guess."

"Didn't anyone..." I trailed off.

"Nope. Sat with Ms. Frosty the whole time. She was kinda awesome to talk to, but it still made for a pretty awks 15 minutes." Jubilation tapped her foot against the far glass wall. "It's not like I don't have any friends, but they've all gotta watch out for their own skins; I don't blame 'em. And my parents died when I was a kid - _more _of a kid," She added snidely, as if preempting a counter-argument she had heard a hundred times before. "I swear, if they go the _'Little Orphan Jubie' _angle with me, I think I might puke."

"Well, on that appetizing note..." I'd never been able to eat anything on a reaping morning; the adrenaline always started as soon as I woke up, ready for fight-or-flight, and 'Bobby, the Bottomless Pit' seemingly dropped off the face of the Earth for the day. But now that I was wholly resigned to my fate, my stomach was returning. "Do we get a last meal or something?"

"Nah, looks like nothing special 'til we get to the training grounds..." She sighed, then added, "But there's a whole buncha protein bar things in the cabinets along the wall, though. Probably soylent green, but I guess we can't really complain, huh?"

I got up and started investigating in the dark, feeling along the wall until I found a catch to slide one of the cabinets open.

She went on, as I rummaged my way through, "There's cold ones in the bottom cabinet, and warm ones in the top... But they all taste the same. And I don't know if they replenish them, or if that's all we get until New York..." She paused as I re-closed the cabinet. "Then, if you keep going along, there's a little faucet..."

I pushed a button beside the basin I found at waist-height. I rinsed my hands, then splashed a bit of water on my face, thinking how useful this could be, if only I could use my abilities without passing out from the effects of the inhibitor.

"...And then down in the corner," Jubilation cleared her throat, "There's, um, a high-techy pull-out toilet: It makes the walls all opaque and sound-proof when you use it, which is like, thoughtfully conservative of them. Um, so..." She took a deep breath, then exhaled. "Yeah... Sorry, if I just talked your ear off. I do that sometimes. You know, when -"

"Jubilation?" I interrupted.

"Yeah?"

"Actually... It's nice. Thanks for being... so friendly." Then the small smile slowly dropped off my face, as I realized, "...Even though I guess you'll have to kill me later."

The sentiment hung heavily in the air.

"...Bobby?" She said after a few moments.

"...Yeah?"

"You better start calling me 'Jubes', or I _am_ gonna kill you. _Sooner_."


	4. Chapter 4

As I settled back onto my bed with a small pile of protein bars, I noticed the train began to slow down. "Is this...?"

"Must be Seattle." Jubes announced, sitting up. "Man, it sucks how we go through every friggin' state in the country, but we don't get to see anything in any of 'em..." She huffed. "No wonder the West Coasters are always extra crazy in the arena..."

She was right; the first tributes reaped each year tended to be some of the most aggressive combatants in the arena, though the Games' commentators were always divided whether it was coincidence, lifestyle, or something else that contributed to that common trait. I hadn't really thought about how I was one of those mutants now. Or what it would take to turn me into a crazed killing machine...

"...'Cause you realize we're gonna spend a week on this stupid train, doin' nothing, right?" She slumped back down onto her mattress. "And I bet they keep us locked up in the dark like this the whole time, like we're friggin' vampires or something..."

As if on cue, a blue light suddenly flickered on and an image appeared on the wall: The official reaping coverage, a live feed from Washington State. It was the same scene as every other reaping: two large video screens on either side of an over-sized American flag that served as a backdrop for the sparse stage, which featured only a podium, bearing the emblem of the Danger Games on the front. It was no ordinary lectern, though; it was connected directly to the U.S. government's 'Known Mutants' database. Once you turned 18, you had to register your mutant status with Uncle Sam - and that was it. Your name was in the pool for the Danger Games. No exceptions.

As soon as the clock in the corner of the projection ticked over to 7.30am PST, Emma Frost promptly strode out on stage, in an immaculately white, ermine-trimmed, floor-length cape, under which she wore a color-matched corset-bustier that left little to the imagination, paired with pristine white pants that must have been painted onto her, and her sponsor-provided, signature 6-inch Christian Louboutin heels.

"Pfft. Just in case you forgot her nickname's The White Queen." Jubes rolled her eyes at the projection. "They must give her an entire train car full of white outfits every year."

"Yeah, and with all that blood on her hands..." I was starting to lose my appetite again. "Can you imagine the dry cleaning bill?"

"Hey,_ she's_ not the one to blame for the Games." A defensive tone rose in Jubes' voice and caught in her throat, "You can totally hate her all you want, but _she's_ not the one who's gonna be makin' the killing blow, when you find yourself holding someone's life in your hands in the arena."

"No, she'd have to be a telekinetic mutant to do that..." I rebuked dryly. "Not some white-washed eye candy, who-"

"Good morning, Washington." Frost said stoically into her earpiece mic.

Jubes and I fell silent.

"If you were hiding under a rock last night, or for the last 5 years..." The White Queen continued, "Then _perhaps_ you're not aware that we are on the cusp of this year's Danger Games." She cleared her throat and began the rote speech that she was required to say before every reaping. "As I'm sure you well know, as implemented by House Resolution 616, the Danger Games maintain the ethos of the Mutant Registration Act of 2006 by reminding us of the laws which guarantee peace between _Homo Sapiens_ and _Sapiens Superior_. The Games serve as reparation for the violence that occurred during the institution of this protective legislative act, by requiring each state to provide one mutant, who are called 'tributes', to participate in the Games. The 48 tributes -"

In the wake of the Registration crisis, Alaska and Hawaii seceded from the Union, then offered their doors open to any and all mutants wanting to escape the tyranny of a nation that was abhorrently legislating the systematic persecution, control, and murder of the mutant population. It was a great opportunity... for the six or so mutants who could afford the high price of a ticket to paradise (or the frozen tundra). But the rest of us...

"-will be transferred to a vast outdoor arena, where, over a period of several weeks, the competitors must fight to the death. The last two tributes standing alive in the arena are declared the winners, and will receive a life of ease back in their state of residence." Emma Frost cleared her throat again. "Well, we're on a schedule. Let's not waste any more of my time, shall we." She keyed a pass-code into the touchscreen on the podium, and waited a moment for the program to run and retrieve the result from the government's data. One eyebrow raised slightly, but she read out the name it had selected in a clear and level voice, "_Warren Worthington_, hm, _the Third_."

An uproar rippled through the crowd in Seattle.

"They're joking..." I said aloud, my mouth hanging open at the projected image.

It took the cameras less than a second to find him. Warren Worthington III was standing agitated, now tugging his Burberry trench-coat closer against himself, while the cool morning breeze mussed his otherwise perfectly-coiffed blond hair. He was having a terse, rushed conversation with his father (the Second), while their bodyguards surrounded them uncertainly. The Danger Games' enforcers swiftly made their way up to the VIP reserved seating, inhibitor collar at the ready, with no regard for who the man - the son, or his father - was.

As they caught Worthington III from behind and collared him, he let out such an anguished yell as he doubled over in pain that - for a moment - it completely quieted the crowd. The closest enforcers were suddenly thrown back by a blur of force that exploded out from Warren's huddled mass and shredded his designer fashions in the process. He was still screaming in a blind, pained rage - which was carrying him aloft almost as well as the white feathers covering the wings protruding from his back - when they finally managed to get him back down to the ground.

"Oh man, that's it. _He's gonna win_..." Jubilee moaned into her mattress. "He's a total hottie... He's got friggin' wings - which _every _sponsor in the country just saw on national television... And even if they were all, like, in the bathroom just now and missed it, it doesn't matter, 'cause his dad has more money than Jesus-Mary-and-Joseph..."

"Amen." I muttered into the darkness, as the official coverage switched off.


	5. Chapter 5

It seemed like no time at all before a commotion somewhere outside our train car signalled the arrival of the heir of Worthington Industries.

Glaring sunlight suddenly intruded through the door of the unoccupied compartment, accompanied by the not-so-far-off shouting of Worthington Senior:

"_Warren _\- Warren! You _will _make it through this." The father commanded, sounding more like an imperial order than the desperate encouragement that might be expected.

As I blinked and squinted against the solarity of the situation, the tertiary form of Warren Worthington appeared in the open doorway, before forcibly and unceremoniously alighting into his quarters.

"You listen to me," continued his patriarchy, presumably to the escort of peacekeeping soldiers outside, "If he _dies_ on that train - if he dies _before he makes it to the arena_, you'll be -"

Dead.

Dying.

Death.

That's what Warren Worthington the Third looked like, in the few seconds I could see him, before they shut the door on us.

Blue veins, pulsing underneath his paled skin. Frantic scratches around the collar on his neck. Eyes wild with pain.

Jubes' faint lights caught Warren's bloodshot orbs for only a moment, before they disappeared behind an opaque wall of his own making. Warren had shut us out.

"Gee, not even a 'Hello'..." She raised her dimly lit fingers up higher, peering through the darkness, to no avail. "Guess Richie Rich must have skipped his etiquette lessons."

The train shuddered back into motion; I gave Jubilation Lee a look.

"_Tch_… What?" She grumbled as her lights fizzled out. "He can't hear us, Bobby. And it's not like we're all here to become BFFs."

"Hey, I don't know about you, Jubes…" I settled back on my bed, and stared up at the nothingness, "But I need all the allies I can get."

_Allies_. That was one of the few words I could recall getting thrown around every year during the Games.

It was an absurd notion, banding together with certain people until everyone else was dead and then you'd have to kill _them_.

But if it meant a better chance at staying alive...

"But he's already gonna have big money behind him, Bobby, so he's not gonna play fair."

"You don't know-"

"I'm not sayin' he's gonna be one of the _bad guys_," Jubes stated matter-of-factly. "But _everyone's_ gonna want to be on his side… So, I just wouldn't trust him."

"But I should trust _you_, Miss Lite-Brite?"

She snorted lightly. "You already _do_, Mr. Freeze."

I sighed. Opal always told me I have a terrible poker face. "Well, still, I'm not going to write off Big Bird just yet…" I confessed.

She clucked her tongue at me, and we fell into silence.

There wasn't much else we could do. The big feathery elephant in the room wasn't talking to us.

A familiar tune suddenly disturbed the quiet, the lyrics drifting across my subconsciousness:

_Sunny day… Sweepin' the clouds away..._

As I found myself fighting against my heavily-lidded eyes, I realized with sudden panic that I had actually fallen asleep. How long had I been out? And why wasn't the train moving?

"_On my way... to where the air is sweet…_" The song continued, and I started to relax a little as I watched Jubes' fingertips glowing on and off in front of her face while she sang quietly to herself. "_Can you tell me how to get, how to get to-_"

"Idaho State?" I offered.

She let out a hiss of surprise. "Tryin' to scare me to death, Sleeping Beauty? Not cool."

"Huh, if that's all it takes…" I tried to keep the grin out of my voice, "I think I'd better keep looking for allies."

She huffed loudly and I could tell Jubes was pouting at me, even before the reaping projection flickered on, which bathed her and - as speculated - her protruding bottom lip in a blue glow.

I iced a tiny heart onto the glass wall between us.

She rolled her eyes at me and settled back as the Idaho coverage went live, "Welcome to Boise, Bobby Drake..."

I turned my attention to the image: The stage was set as before; there was nothing new under the sun. I wondered briefly, glancing aside to the other, still-opaque glass wall of my compartment, whether Warren Worthington was awake - alive even - and watching with us.

Emma Frost stepped out then, and recited the reaping speech, which Jubes and I parroted with as much over-enthusiastic ad-libbing as we could manage, to make up for Frost's steady tone of disinterest.

At the conclusion, Jubes started a drum-roll with her hands on her thighs. I cleared my throat, "And the Potato State tribute is…"

"Julian Keller." Frost enunciated into the microphone.

Jubes bolted upright, an errant flash sparking off one of her hands. "Jules?!"

The Danger Games' enforcement officers were attempting to single out a black-haired delinquent, who was forcing his way through and away from the crowd, which appeared to be haphazardly parting around him, and not entirely of their own volition.

"Ohmygosh, _I'm gonna kill him..._" Jubilation Lee growled at the projection.

"Aw, _hell no_. Get off me, you flat-scans!" The voice of Julian Keller rang out as the swarm of enforcers encircled, caught and collared him onscreen.

"_..._Unless they do first." Jubes muttered to herself.

I looked back and forth from her to the projection. "What, you know this kid?"

"Yeah, I know that _idiot_."

"Man, what are the odds…" I mused, unhelpfully.

"Not in my favor." She lamented aloud.


	6. Chapter 6

When the live feed of Idaho's reaping of Julian Keller finally flickered out and the train resumed its southern locomotion, Jubes and I were unexpectedly and paradoxically bathed in a glow of white light.

A horrified, strangled noise sounding vaguely like "_holymolyheavenhavemercy_" came out of Jubilation's mouth, and I followed her fixated gaze to the other train compartment, from which the aforementioned radiance was emanating.

I cleared my throat. "I think what, uh, Ms. Lee meant by that was _'Oh thank god, you're alive!',_ Mr. Worthington... uh, Sir."

A pained, husky voice scoffed at us. "Oh, I'm sure you've been real worried about me."

Jubes quickly found her voice and jibed back, "Yeah - worried we'd have to live with the smell of your corpsification for the next 6 days..."

"I'll try not to disappoint." Warren Worthington the Third replied flatly.

Our wing-man was stretched out in a plank position on his bed - which he must have moved at some point between Seattle and Boise into its current diagonal orientation, with the head of it towards the corner closest to my quarters - with a half-tattered button-down Armani shirt slung over the rail that served as a headboard. Both of his wings were stretched straight back behind him as far as they would go, and the feathers at the tips were nearly touching the opposite corner of his prison. One might also have noted how exceptionally well-toned his torso was - were it not for all the blue-tinged ridges that were rippled across his body like early-onset varicose veins, accompanied by an unsettlingly persistent sheen of feverish sweat.

"Jubes, stop staring." I said over-loudly, still staring at the heir of Worthington Industries myself. "It's, uh, not polite."

"_I'm not staring;_ you're _staring_." She hissed at me, transfixed herself on the winged man before us.

"It's fine." He glanced at us, unimpressed. "Every girl I've ever met acts like that when seeing them for the first time."

"Well hey, it's good to see you don't have a big head about it." I jested. "I mean, who would've thought a man with wings would be so down-to-earth..."

"I think we should work together!" Jubes suddenly blurted out.

I gave her a skeptical look.

"No, I know..." She yielded, raising her hands half-way up - in surrender. "But before you get all '_hypocritical much?_' on me, Bobby Drake, I've been thinking – and I'm serious – the three of us should team up, at least just for now, while we're stuck on this goshforsaken train."

"Gee, did something change your mind about our fine feathered friend...?" I glanced pointedly from her over to our Mister Worthington.

"Must be my winning personality." He quipped to me in a conspiratorial stage whisper, the tiniest bit of amusement starting to show on his face.

"Oh shut up," Jubes sniffed. "Okay? It's pretty obvious that _Alpha Flight_ here probably knows _something_ about keeping fit, and who knows what else billionaires know-"

"Come on," I interrupted, "He's not worth _billions._"

"_Yet._" He appended, a suppressed grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"And like," Jubes continued, patently ignoring us, "I know I've never had as much money as either of you - I'm so not in your league - but..."

"But that doesn't matter now." The Third assured her.

"Right." She tucked her hair behind her ear. "Right. So – well, what I _do_ know, though, is stuff about the Games, that... maybe you guys don't know – 'cause you've probably had better things to be doing over the past 5 years than watchin' the boob tube."

I sighed sincerely. "You know, I never thought I'd end up on my death bed, regretting that I didn't watch more TV..."

"Well, lucky you're stuck with me, Frosted Flake – you can save your 'death bed' melodrama stuff for the arena." She gave me a quick teasing smile, then got back to business. "Everything I've seen, success in the Games basically boils down to fitness, allies, and your wits."

"Gotcha. So, Mr. Muscles – I mean, Warren..." I glanced at him to check if we were on a first-name basis yet; he rolled his eyes then nodded. "...is obviously our 'fitness' guru. Which makes me-"

"Allies." Jubes answered.

"Wait - I'm not 'wit'?"

"It's 'wits', dork-face." She stuck her tongue out at me. "And no, you're not, 'cause that's totally my department."

"But I've never... I mean, what can I teach you guys about allies?" I asked, blinking blankly at her. "Because - if you haven't noticed - you're talking to the king of the literal cold shoulder..."

"Nah, you're a pro! I'm sure there's tons of useful stuff you know, that you don't even _know_ you know. Like... um..." Jubes stared at me for a minute and then itched her nose, clearly at a loss for words.

"Gee, thanks for that glowing vote of confidence." I shook my head. "Maybe don't talk me up so much in front of the _billionaire_ – we don't want him to feel inadequate."

There was an unmistakeable sound of feathers ruffling as their aviatic owner tried not to laugh out loud.

"Come on, Bobbo... You know what I mean. It's just - you're cool... And... I don't know!" Jubilation Lee pleaded with me. "But... Okay._ Fine._" She paused to inhale deeply, and then expelled everything in a single breath, "You make me feel like maybe my last two weeks on Earth might not be so bad – and then like, somehow you kinda make everything seem so crystal clear, when I see it through you... And so, I dunno, but I think you just... make other people be better versions of themselves... And that's what we need from our allies."

The white glow from Warren's end of the train was enough to illuminate the shy little smile on Miss California's lips - and it suddenly felt like the entire world could in fact see through me, as my ears turned red.

"So," Worthington cleared his throat loudly. "It's a deal, then - I'm in."

I quickly nodded, still speechless.

"Awesome-opossum." Jubes chirped. "Okay! If we're gonna train ourselves up, we need to get in 'arena-mode' as quick as we can. So, we need to be moving, working out, as much as humanly possible."

Warren nodded in assent, finally pushing himself up from his prone position. "And we should only be sleeping in short bursts – you're never going to get a full night's sleep out there."

"Hey, Bobby's already been practicing that..." Jubes grinned at me.

My ears went a further shade of crimson, in lieu of a good counter-argument.

"So," Worthington sat on the edge of his bed, rolling his shoulders, "Do you want to know how to turn on the lights - or were you planning to stay in the dark the rest of the way..."

"Oh, thank baby-Jesus," Jubes exhaled. "I thought maybe you had some sorta lame-o light powers, too... Which woulda sucked for you, Big Bird - 'cause this train ain't big enough for two of us." She grinned at Warren impishly.

He cocked an eyebrow at her. "I seem to remember you talking about some kind of 'teamwork' thing just a minute ago..."

"Save the fireworks for the arena, Jubes." I coughed, with a dutiful smirk to Warren. "Alright, Mr. Worthington. Enlighten us."


	7. Chapter 7

And that's how Jubilation Lee and I ended up with our arms in up to our shoulders inside the walls of an armored military train car.

"Woo!" Jubes crowed. "I~ got~ the panel~ off! I~ got~ the panel~ off!" She sang aloud.

I ducked my head back out of the food-storage cabinet in the end wall of my compartment. "Aw, what? I can't even _find_ a panel."

She waggled her lightly illuminated fingers at me.

"Remind me again how I'm useful..." I muttered, sticking my head back among the pile of protein bars in the cabinet, and resuming my fumbling along the inner wall, feeling for the lip of an electrical panel cover. "Also, remind me again how exactly _he_ knows so much about our death train?" I called out, much more loudly.

"I designed it." Warren Worthington the Third said with a heavy sigh. "Not these military-adapted ones - but the 'Executive Passenger Leisure Suites' were essentially the same." He cleared his throat, "Now, there should be two switches, J-"

"If you call me anything but 'Jubes'," Miss Jubilation Lee warned him, "I _will_ make sure you live to regret it."

"Duly noted." Warren paused respectfully, then continued, "So, two switches, _Jubes..._ One for the main overhead lights, and the other for-"

There was a click.

"Ooh, _mood lighting._" Jubes whistled quietly._ "_Nice design work, Casanova."

I groaned. I wasn't about to spend the rest of the week in the dark. "Let-" I bashed against the inside surface. Nothing. Solid. "There-" I reached in further and higher, and gave it another thump. Zilch. "Be-" I tried lower, hitting along the shelf line. To no avail. "Light!" I shouted, exasperated – my hand icing slightly despite my inhibitor collar, as I slugged the inner wall one more time – and, all of a sudden, something popped open under the pressure of my fist. "Yes!" I quickly wiped the condensation from my hand off on my shirt, flipped the switches I found behind the panel, then rejoined the others.

Warren had moved his bed into the middle of his area, and was now starting to remove his shoes. Jubes shrugged at me; we both decided to follow suit.

"Okay, so what on Earth inspired you to design a _train_?" I asked, dragging my plastic bed frame to a central position.

"I thought it'd be obvious..." Warren mused as he tossed his Mezlans into the corner of his compartment. "I hate flying."

Jubes and I exchanged another wordless glance with one another.

Warren rolled his eyes, and clarified, "...When it involves using anyone else's wings. You know, big metal ones."

"Uh oh, I might have to promote Wings to 'wit', Bobberoo..." Jubes cast a brief smirk in my direction, while we watched Warren situate himself on his back on the floor and start doing leg presses, effortlessly lifting the paltry weight of his bed as makeshift resistance.

"Don't get too carried away just yet, Jubes..." I chided her, as we convened on the floor under our own beds. "'Cause I get the feeling that Jack LaLanne over there isn't too concerned about the amount of laughter in our training regime..."

"I _can_ hear you, you know." Warren had stopped mid-rep, and propped himself up on one elbow to give us both a withering look.

"Right." I swallowed, and placed my feet on the underside of my bed frame. "Well, 'when in Rome'..."

"...'Try not to get thrown to the lions'?" Jubes gave me one last quick grin before focusing her concentration on the exercise.

We carried on for some time, mostly in silence - save for Warren barking out new positions, or rest intervals, or how many more repetitions we had to do.

"Well. I feel bad. For Julian." Jubes was the first to cave, doing her best to converse between push-ups. "He's prob'ly. Gonna spend. The rest. Of the week. In the dark. Swearing himself. Hoarse."

"Five more." Worthington declared indifferently.

"Unless he. Accidentally. Trips the lights. While he's. Trashing his room... ugh!" Jubes let herself collapse to the floor as she finished, waiting a few moments for her breathing to steady itself out. She sighed aloud. "Is it bad that I'm thanking my lucky stars there's not another room in our train car? I mean, not that I don't wanna see him... but... he's just a total ass when he's angry. Not the kind of reunion I wanna be party to, y'know?"

"What did you say?" Warren asked, eyeing her from under the edge of a lifted wing, as he too was laid out prone on the floor.

"Oh – Julian – um, the Idaho tribute." She said, pushing a few stray hairs back behind her ear. "You saw the reaping, right? So... I actually knew him in L.A. when we were growing up. He's sort of a j-"

"No, not that." Warren's brow furrowed and his feathers ruffled reflexively while he looked past us to Jubes' far wall. "I meant – it's odd – there _should_ be one more compartment."

Jubilation Lee stared intently at her other wall in all of its opaque glory, then looked back at us and shrugged. "Unless you guys got a pair of x-ray specs I can borrow... There's a whole lotta nothing there, that I can see."

"Maybe they just left out the fourth wall on these military trains." I sat up and rolled my shoulders to ease the tension out of the muscles, "You see it all the time in accounting case studies; if your client - in this case, the government – massively overspends on, let's say, nuclear warheads, then they try to cut costs somewhere else to meet budget, and-"

I could feel two pairs of eyes suddenly boring holes into me.

"And I said that out loud, didn't I..." I rubbed my face wearily. "I guess there's no point in keeping it secret any longer." I cleared my throat and admitted, "My name is Robert Drake. And I'm a CPA."

"Oh man," Jubes exclaimed, "You're like Clark Kent, only more boring!"

"Yeah," I coughed, "You know, that's exactly how _Harras, Anderson &amp; Brown _offered the job to me."

"Sorry, B, I like you and all. It's just..." Jubes giggled unapologetically, "It's just – you're doomed, y'know – 'cause everyone _hates_ accountants."

"Well, I don't hate them." Warren offered. "Sometimes they save us money."

"Yeah, thanks..." I shook my head, "But it's fine. I always knew that death and taxes were the only certainty in life." I shrugged, "Just kind of hoped it was going to take longer to prove it..."

"Mm, it could be worse," Warren countered. "The only thing you ever designed in your life could come back to bite you in the ass." He gave a half-hearted laugh, and pushed himself up to sit on the edge of his bed. "Oh, but I bet Industries is having a field day right now - R&amp;D always gets approached for all sorts of weird stuff for the Games... We'll see what they can come up with to save me from this." He sighed, "Wouldn't be surprised if my father rigged it all somehow, just for the publicity."

"Wow," Jubes gave us a polite round of applause. "Well, if you guys are done getting all those impressive, mopey monologues out of your systems... Maybe we could carry on with this 'trying to save ourselves' junk?"


	8. Chapter 8

Somehow - while the three of us were busy exercising our right to remain sapient (as far as as our self-made pact of prepping one another for the arena was concerned, anyway) - we ended up in Las Vegas, Nevada.

The train slowed and - like clockwork – after a few minutes had gone by, the reaping feed simultaneously illuminated each of our compartments. This time, however, the stage which was usually devoid of life was now sporting a red-headed woman who was sitting rather politely - with legs crossed and both hands placed primly atop her knee - and looking achingly bored, despite the fact that she was completely naked. And that her skin was completely blue.

"Aw man, _figures,_ we won't get to see any of the networks' pre-reaping interviews with the victors..." Jubes let out a disappointed whine as she reclined on her re-positioned bed to watch the coverage. "_Suck._ I always like listening to Mystique – she's such a friggin' riot."

"This woman - 'Mystique'..." Warren exchanged a brow-raised glance with me, all while directing his question at Jubes, "Is she always so... _blue_?"

"She's a _shapeshifter_, bird-brain." Jubes rolled her eyes as loudly as she could manage. "And that happens to be her _natural_ self."

Of course. The victors wore inhibitors as well, but they were sophisticated and nearly invisible pieces of tech, not the bulky collars they put on us tributes.

"I thought she looked sort of, uh, familiar..." I admitted with a cough, "I think I've seen a couple photos of her floating around on the internet..."

Thankfully, before Ms. Jubilation Lee entirely caught my meaning, Emma Frost emerged onstage, wearing a Vegas-showgirl-inspired feathered-and-bejewelled outfit. "Raven, _dear_, lovely to see you again." She offered coolly as she stepped past her azure counterpart and towards the lectern, then added as a quick aside, "Though I might question the outfit..."

In reply, Mystique slowly uncrossed her legs, then re-crossed them in the opposite orientation, with a hint of a murderous glint in her yellow eyes. "Might say the same about yours too, _Em_." She lobbed back, sweetly.

Jubes tittered with delight. "_Ohmygosh_, the censors have their work cut out for them." It was clear we were indeed getting the live and unfiltered feed; the networks no doubt were working with at least a few seconds' delay.

But whether the lines for the audience at home were blurred or not, it was exceptionally clear that Mystique didn't exactly play by the rules. There had been five years of the Danger Games so far, with two winners per year. Thus, 10 'victors', who supposedly – if anyone still believed Emma Frost's speech after hearing it 485 times – lived a life of ease in the state they were reaped from.

A 'life of ease', that is, in return for promoting the propaganda of the Games and the goodly state of 'mutant rights' in America as facilitated by the Mutant Registration Act. But anyone could tell there was something about Mystique; any poor sap who got the unfortunate job of trying to enforce the generally accepted victoring procedures on her, probably didn't last long enough to see the (lack of) results.

I sat up as Frost concluded summarizing the historic notions of the Games with the required introduction of "Raven Darkholme, victor of the 2nd annual Danger Games..." which she followed with a dismissive wave in the direction of the posing blue ingenue behind her. The next few moments were now my part of the bargain – to identify potential allies as and when they occurred.

While the roaring applause for Mystique died down, Emma Frost accessed the reaping database, which seemed to lag for a few moments before giving the name: "Neena Thurman," Emma read out crisply.

The enforcers had no trouble with this one. As they circled and closed in on a woman with short black hair in the crowd, she remained sitting quietly. As they collared her, the cameras zoomed in, and the look of relief on her pale white face was easy to tell even with the large black circle tattooed around her left eye.

"Well, she didn't seem too upset..." Warren observed, reflexively ruffling his feathers in a self-conscious sort of way.

"Yeah," I shrugged expertly, staring at the projection for any other clues about the woman onscreen. "I got nothing. I mean, we should be looking for allies who have complementary abilities – _and_ who aren't going to kill us right away. But..." I gestured vaguely toward the wall where the coverage had just switched off. "Unless her power is being super chill..."

"_Or_..." Jubes mused back at us. "Unless 'Neena' is a 'career'..."

"A what?" Warren and I asked in unison.

"A career tribute." Jubes repeated, to mine and Warren's uncomprehending faces. "There's some mutants now who have started dedicating their entire lives to prepping for the Games. Like what we're doing, but all the time."

"Like a literal career... A job..." Warren quirked a brow.

"Yep," Jubes nodded. "Or at least like a really, really, _really_ serious hobby. Bordering on obsession. All in hopes of getting picked on reaping day, and then dominating – you know, _winning_ \- in the arena."

"Great. So, like Crossfit, but for mutants..." I exhaled, considering this new information with what we had seen. "You think Neena is one of them?"

Warren made a disapproving noise. "She didn't look too dangerous."

"_And_ she didn't look too unhappy about being picked." Jubes puffed back. "And – okay – here's Rule #1, you guys: _Never underestimate anyone in the arena._"

I nodded deferentially. "Gotcha. The whole 'looks can be deceiving' lesson we learned in kindergarten from 'The Ugly Duckling'..."

But Warren wasn't having it. "Cute. Careers... 'Rules' for the Games... Are these things that you and your Mystique fan club come up with, Jubilation, while you spend your lives on the internet?"

Jubes wrinkled her nose, affronted. "Uh. _'Scuse you_?"

"Sorry, didn't you hear me?" Warren pulled at his inhibitor collar in case it was preventing his words getting though. "Or were you too busy trying to figure out how to reconcile your hipster feminazi status with the fact that you're 'totally crushing' on a boring accountant who's got a cache full of Mystique nudes on his hard-drive?"

"Whoa, hey! Come on." I swallowed. "I don't know what's happening right now, but how about we all just agree that whatever this is, 'stays in Vegas'?" As I gestured to generally indicate the suddenly contentious atmosphere, the train lurched and got underway again.

"No dice." Warren snarled through gritted teeth, his bluish veins bulging as he seethed.

Jubes pursed her lips, not impressed. "Maybe crankypants over there should get some beauty sleep, since it's his turn in the rotation-"

Warren aggressively shoved his bed back into the corner in reply.

"-And when he wakes up he _might_ be transformed into a _glorious swan_!" Jubes cooed, then shouted, "A swan who's _not afraid of getting his butt kicked in the arena by some chick named 'Neena'!_"

In an instant, the glass wall between me and Warren turned opaque. He was gone again.

"Is _that_ what this is all about?" I asked incredulously. "Or am I missing the real picture here..."

"Puh-_lease,_ Bobby. Do you even Instagram?" She gave me an exasperated look. "'Cause I've got thirteen-hundred-and-thirty-seven followers – which is _way_ above average, by the way – so I know how to spot a troll from a mile away. Even real ones who look like hunky birdmen in their spare time."

"I don't know." I shook my head. "Something _really _doesn't seem right. Like maybe there's something else wrong with him..."

"He's a scared wittle hunky birdman who's in a whole lotta pain. Like, I can understand _that,_" Jubes raised her hands defensively. "But if he's gonna rip on the rest of us? Uh-uh. I don't think so." She stuck her tongue out at my far wall. "_Grow up, playboy!_"

I sighed, mentally crossing Warren and Jubes off each other's 'allies' list.

It didn't take an accounting degree to calculate that the odds were severely dwindling against the three of us arriving in New York with our sanity still intact.

Six more days to go.


	9. Chapter 9

Things were finally starting to cool off again – literally and figuratively - when we made it into Arizona. Jubes and I had figured it was nearing 11pm Mountain Time – from my rough geographical and chronological calculations, paired with her recollections of staying up to watch the reapings in years past. Warren rejoined us the moment the blue screen of death reappeared; Jubes fidgeted uncomfortably for about three-and-a-half seconds, then:

"Look, Birdo," she proffered suddenly. "_Please_ just say you were hangry or somethin', so we can get on with our lives..."

Warren considered, then raised a brow. "You're going to let me off that easily?"

Jubilation Lee gave a noncommittal half-shrug. "Life's too short."

"Yeah." He muttered, then made a point of brushing away several imaginary protein bar crumbs. "Fine... I was 'hangry'."

"I knew it!" An impish grin took over Jubes' expression, and she elbowed the glass between us with a thump. "_Toldja_, Bobbo. You totally owe me five bucks now... Hey, c'mon..." She thumped again. "Bobby?"

But I was too busy staring at the latest redhead on screen – this one being fair-skinned and somehow much more captivating in fully-clothed contrast to Miss Darkholme back in Las Vegas. Warren followed the track of my gaze, then followed suit to his own projection. "Uh... Dibs." He coughed aloud.

"Uh, nope." Jubes quickly cleared her throat as she realized the situation. "Sorry, boys. Ix-nay on the objectifying women-ay, while this 'feminazi' is on duty, okay? Okay."

Warren rolled his eyes; I kept my mouth shut.

"Besides," Jubes continued, "You'd hafta get past her boyfriend first..." She started to grin. "And trust me, you don't wanna get _his_ attention."

Warren humphed, not the least bit threatened or dissuaded by this information.

"Look," There was something jubilant creeping into Miss Lee's tone. "Let's just say... He's got a wicked stink eye."

Emma Frost strolled onstage then, but there was no snarky exchange between these two women. Instead, Frost gestured to the redhead and announced into her bluetooth earpiece mic, "Ladies and gentlemen: Jean Grey – your victor of the 4th annual Danger Games."

The enthused yet respectful applause beckoned Miss Grey to her feet, with a faint blush, a kindly smile, and genuine words of thanks falling gracefully from her lips. As Frost moved forward, quieting the crowd, I eyed up Jubes.

"So, Jean Grey... What's the black-and-white on her?"

"Well, her Games name was officially 'Marvel Girl'... Kinda lame, I know." Jubes proceeded elaborating, loud enough for both myself and Warren to hear over Emma Frost reciting her spiel for the sixth time today. "But everyone pretty much just calls her 'Phoenix' now."

"You call the victor - _from Arizona_ \- 'Phoenix'," Warren restated drily and emphatically. "That's even less imaginative than 'Marvel Girl'."

"Oh cripes, you noobs _really_ don't know anything about the Games, do you..." Jubes rubbed her face. "Dumb question. Right, well, _duh_, it's not just 'cause we're sittin' in the state capital - the 'greatest city in the Valley of the Sun' - right now."

She leaned her forehead against the glass between us and stared unblinkingly at Worthington the Third. "It was down to the final three in the arena when 'Little Miss Mom Jeans' up there," Jubes jerked her thumb in Marvel Girl's direction, "got obliterated by this _huuuge_ concussive blast that came outta nowhere and just wrecked everything – and I mean_ everything_ \- in a 50-foot radius. You know, including the tribute who had been tryin' to strangle Phoen to death at the time. They couldn't even scrape together enough of the other mutant to send 'em home to anybody! But 'I Dream of Jeannie' here..." Jubes shook her head in disbelief, "Like, in the middle of all this rubble, when the dust finally started to settle – something starts moving, and then there she is. She basically just stands up and brushes the dust off her shoulders; doing the whole 'reborn from the ash' thing like it's nothin'. Essentially, badassing her way into D.G. history. YouTube it sometime."

"But how did she-"

"Wait, shh!" Jubes cut Warren's query off. Emma Frost had retrieved a name from the Arizona reaping database.

"This year's tribute is," Frost gave a slow indifferent blink. "Lorna Dane."

The cameras found Lorna easily; a bright mane of green hair, pushing herself away from the people sitting around her, who looked as in shock as she was; an old gentleman clutching at his heart in panic was pulled out of the way. "No!" she cried out plaintively, and the Danger Games enforcers wavered for a second, strangely, and then the collar went on. "...No." Lorna Dane tried again, hands hovering around the inhibitor, until the enforcement officers dragged her off. The video coverage ended.

"Well?" Warren prompted.

I continued staring where the image had been. Lorna Dane. Instinctively, she seemed like a good ally to me. But I had absolutely no idea why. So what could I even say to the others? Maybe her power was the ability to give people heart attacks... That's what it looked like, anyway. Was that good? Bad?

"Bobby," Jubes sighed darkly when my silence lingered on too long, "Please just say 'Dibs' and get it over with."

"What?" My attention snapped back to Jubilation Lee. "No._ No, _I..."

Jubes pursed her lips at me – not impressed. "'Night," she said, then tugged her commode console out of the wall, opaquely separating herself from me.

Well, _us_.

"If I get 'Red'," Warren intoned, sounding casual and a bit bored, "You can keep 'Greenie-locks' - or whatever Jubes is likely to call her..."

"...'Keep' her? Lorna, you mean..." My eyebrows knit together in a question.

"Yeah, _figuratively, _Drake. No one's getting chained up or anything." Warren gave a huff of a laugh. "Gee, your locker room banter's even worse than your _Jiāoxiǎo _princess's over there." He cocked an eyebrow even as he gritted his teeth through a spasm of pain from his inhibitor. "Don't you have a... a – I think of it as a 'mental harem'. Doesn't hurt anybody."

After a sideways glance at Jubes' wall, I fell into conversation with Mister Heir-and-Harem of Worthington Industries. Somehow, failed relationships were something he and I had in common - and it was enough to take us through to New Mexico.

In the bleary hour of 3 a.m., I had even less of an opinion on the reaping of the blonde and tanned Amara Aquilla than I'd had about Lorna Dane. Warren believed Miss Aquilla would be pretty good paired with a shot of tequila; I could've sworn that was funny at the time, but it was probably for the best that Jubes didn't hear it. I woke up again when we were in Denver, and wondered aloud if the Colorado tribute, Danielle Moonstar, was responsible for the liberal dusting of snow that had been falling during the reaping - Jubes informed me, however, that things like snow actually happen all the time "in these cold-ass friggin' mountain states". So I let it go.

We made bets in Utah on the odds of their tribute being a Mormon; the loser having to plank until the next stop on the reaping trail. One look at Regan Wyngarde and we all decided to work on ab exercises, just to be on the safe side. In Wyoming, we – and the crowd – were shocked when the tribute turned out to be a 60-something Native American man, with a black cap identifying him as a Vietnam War veteran. He stood with stoic dignity; the Danger Games enforcers merely followed after him, inhibitor collars staid in hand, as he made his way with a slight limp to the corralling area to say his goodbyes. If anyone already knew the reality of the peril that lay in wait for us in the arena, it was him. He would be an ally worth fighting for.

But that wasn't the only surprise of the day. We made it into Billings for the 9:30 pm show; this time, there was a guy on the reaping stage, sitting stiffly in a preppy-looking Puma golf shirt, and red-lensed Raybans. I made a "Who he?" face at Jubes, but she just held up a silencing index finger in reply, struggling to keep an expression-less look to go with it.

Emma Frost rushed along the stage, breasts trussed up as high and protruding as possible, and what little clothing she did have on, was snaked indecently around her. Almost an afterthought, as though she had only just noticed him when he stood up to respect her arrival onstage, she spun on her stilettos, then quickly closed the gap between herself and the stuffed shirt.

"Hello, Scott." She purred, then leaned in closer to him. "Jean wanted me to _give you something_..."

Without hesitation, she planted the least chaste-looking kiss in the history of ever on his cheek. He swallowed wordlessly and sat promptly as Frost went to the podium.

"I take it _that_," Warren noted incredulously, "is Jean Grey's boyfriend."

Jubilation Lee snorted gleefully. "Well, it ain't Corey Hart, dingus."

"Why is Frost playing him like that?" I asked while the White Queen flaunted herself, at the same time making her way through her requisite speechifying.

"She plays everybody. That's why they picked her – to stir up drama for TV." Jubes stretched backward. "And anyone who thinks they aren't gettin' played by Emma is dead wrong."

Frost soon finished, casting a wicked smile backward as she hastily added, "Oh, yes. I _almost_ forgot. Of course, the _co-_victor of the 4th annual Danger Games, _Mister_ Scott Summers." She flicked one hand vaguely in his direction, while the other punched in her credentials to the government's database of mutants. "And now, the Montana tribute is..."

For a full second her facade dropped, before she recomposed herself. "...is _Alexander Summers_."

Scott was out of his chair in a restless instant. "Alex?" He searched the crowd frantically. "No!"

The enforcement officers already had their hands on his younger, blonder, sans-sunglasses-at-night doppelganger. Clearly this was a Summers brother.

"Scott!" Alex called out, shoving back at one of his would-be captors. "I tried – I came here - looking for you!"

As Scott rushed to the edge of the stage, Emma Frost tapped out a directive on the podium console, and the elder Summers suddenly buckled at the knees, one hand reflexively seeking the small inhibitor at the base of his neck.

"Mister Summers. _Please_," She spoke the warning aloud and sternly, "You _know_ the rules. Both of you." Frost's eyes flicked over to where Alex Summers was still being shepherded out of the crowd. "You'll have your 15 minutes to say goodbye."

The projections soon went dark. No one said anything. Until something clicked in my mind:

"Jubes, how did Scott Summers win the Games? 'Cause I'm thinking, maybe his mutation is a family trait..."

"Let's hope _winning_'s not..." Warren muttered unhappily.

"_Well_..." Jubes looked at us guiltily. "So, you know that concussive blast I mentioned before that killed one tribute and practically snuffed Jean Grey?"

"Sure." I nodded. "What does that have to do with-"

"Yeah. See..." She took in a breath, then let it out. "So, the thing is, that blast... it kinda... _came from Scott's eyeballs_."

Warren cleared his throat. "_'Kinda'_?"

Jubes shrank back a little. "His name _was_ 'Cyclops' in the arena."

I sighed. "So, it's _possible – _and maybe _probable_ \- that Alex Summers _also_ shoots concussive – and potentially lethal – blasts of energy... And I'm really trying not to imagine _from where_..."

"Hang on," Warren interrupted. "Doesn't it bother anyone else that Jean's boyfriend _tried to kill her_?"

"Oh, _Worthy_..." Jubes cooed gently, "It's cute, you being all defensive about it, but you're seriously like two years late to _that party_." She shook her head. "Sorry. But before you start bringin' up all the usual Stockholm syndrome conspiracy theories or whatever, the Mythbusters already debunked most of it - and Jean and Scott themselves said they'd planned it."

"Mm." Warren remained unconvinced.

Jubes wrinkled her nose and shrugged. "Like I said before – I don't recommend messing with Mr. Summers. And now that goes for either of 'em."

"_Fine._ I guess we _try_ to keep on their good side," Warren agreed, with an air of resignation. "How hard can it be..."

I had the distinct impression that it was going to be as easy as keeping an ice cube from melting on hot asphalt in the middle of July.

We'd find out in 5 days, anyway.


End file.
